


Winged

by witchsoup



Series: Catching Flies [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bill is a London banker fight me, F/M, Fluff, Humor, I am loathe to say, and Fleur is a university student, because I'm not funny? but I try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11620722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchsoup/pseuds/witchsoup
Summary: She -Fleur Delacour- is impeccably dressed in an ankle-length, moss green dress: expensive looking, slouchy, the kind of comfort that comes with flying first class and paying through the nose for a flight that only lasts, what, an hour? Her luggage -Louis Vuitton- matches her handbag.





	Winged

**Author's Note:**

> I feel really strongly about Fleur Delacour. Bill Weasley is the Ibiza chill soundtrack to Sirius Black's club bangers, does that make any sense? The whole I-grew-up-poor-and-now-I-live-in-Egypt-to-get-away-from-my-suffocatingly-loving-mother vibe makes me feel things.

It's a twenty quid standard fare each way to the airport, and despite the fact she's not even _his friend,_ he's sweating in the multi-storey car park, gently giving the finger to every loud-mouthed taxi driver questioning his ability to parallel park. 

Halls don’t open for another week, but his brother is only really here to carry her suitcase and show off the muscles he worked so hard to sculpt since he last saw her. Charlie’s driving skills, however, have only gotten worse in that time. Most importantly, Bill _really_ has to be back at the office before they start the conference call to the Boston office without him. Really. The kind of _“I really have to, Charlie,”_ that could get him sacked. Despite all that, and the fact he’s lost his parking ticket... his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth when he sees her.

She - _Fleur Delacour_ \- is impeccably dressed in an ankle-length, moss green dress: expensive looking, slouchy, the kind of comfort that comes with flying first class and paying through the nose for a flight that only lasts, what, an hour? Her luggage - _Louis Vuitton_ \- matches her handbag. 

Bill is abruptly aware of the number of McDonald's wrappers littering the back seat, the pervasively stale odour of soggy chips emanating from his upholstery.

He scrubs a hand across his face, praying her suitcase fits in the boot of his car. He didn't buy it for any sort of practical reason. His offices are in Canary Wharf, no car could have been the smart choice, but this car is special. The growl of the engine sounds like freedom. When he’s driving, he fantasises about telling his boss to fucking shove the overnight flights to Tokyo, or finally telling his mum that he’s an adult who can wash his own fucking socks. While he’s at it, he could also tell her about the flat in the city he went to look at last week.

So, no. Six months of her life clenched in the jaws of a bright metallic zipper do not fit in the back of his highly inappropriate sports-mode-optional car. The suitcase goes in the back seat, split between the laps of his brother and Tonks. The nineteen year old who looks like something from a Victoria’s Secret show slips gracefully into the front seat. Fleur is blonde and tall, maybe only half a head shorter than he is, and he’s six foot two, and fuck, is she the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. Girl being the operative word.

He drums his fingers on the gear stick.

“Fleur, this is my brother Bill, he’s a banker, but don't let the car fool you, he’s skint.”

She smiles, a tiny curve of her lips, and he almost misses his chance to escape the car park through the raised barrier.

“Pleased to meet you, Bill. When Charlie told me all his brothers looked alike, I assumed-”

“They’d all sit around snorting protein powder and doing bench presses with Dobermans all day? Nah, just this one,” interrupts Tonks.

The sole vine on Charlie's account is enough to get him a free beer, on occasion.

“I take after the Weasleys,” says Bill. “My dad thinks it's hilarious that we live in the Burrow, but we’re constantly ducking through doorways.”

“I expected more freckles,” she says, smirking.

Her voice reminds him of television adverts for products he couldn't possibly afford. Things that would have no place in the bedroom he's shared with Charlie all his life: fine wines and vintage leather jackets, silk ties and fast cars.

In short, the pot of gold at the end of his rainbow, the elusive treasure that might actually be in reach, if he squints. If his mother ever releases the stranglehold of her apron strings.

The car rolls to a stop less than ten feet from the car park exit, caught in a bottleneck, and the huge roundabout ahead is bumper to bumper. He fucking hates traffic lights on roundabouts. They stress him out. With a quick look at his watch, Bill forces himself to stop clenching his jaw. There's no telling how much time he has to make it back to the office, just that it's not going to be enough, and the Burrow is a fifty-minute drive from here.

“You're going to love Ginny, then.” Charlie grabs hold of Bill’s head rest, sticking his head forward. “Can't say she’ll appreciate you coming in and stealing her thunder, though. Ginny’s the baby of the family,” he explains.

Bill flicks his indicator off, turning his head toward Fleur.

“She’s fifteen, she’s not a baby anymore. But she is used to being the centre of attention. Got most of the boys at school wrapped around her little finger-”

“-and at _least_ ten per cent of the girls,” Tonks says.

Bill punches a button on the steering wheel to cover the intermittent popping sounds coming from Charlie's phone. On the radio, a vaguely robotic voice informs the nation that it's seven o'clock, and that it's also Annie Mac on BBC Radio 1.

"Stop sending- no, fucking _text me,_ you're eating my data-"

"What is this, the nineties?" Tonks hisses in response.

“You could just speak- out loud, like a normal person.”

Tonks widens her eyes meaningfully.

“So, Fleur, Charlie didn’t tell me, what are you studying?” He glances down and away from the screen of her phone, resting in the cradle of one perfectly manicured hand, which flashes with message notifications every few seconds. She’s yet to open one to reply. “Why London?”

“Physics with Theoretical Physics,” says Fleur. Bill responds with a small impressed noise, something like a laugh that huffs out of his chest. She doesn’t acknowledge it. “Imperial College is very highly regarded. I had an offer for Cambridge, but the countryside is so boring, no?”

Tonks pulls a single ear bud out in the back seat, looking concerned.

“You know they live in the arse crack of nowhere, right?”

Fleur grins.

“Charlie told me you keep chickens. Grandmere kept chickens when I was very small, but we sold the farm when she died. It’s alright for a holiday, of course, but what would I do in Cambridge if I was craving bouillabaisse? Make it myself?” She snorts, delicately. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you do with Theoretical Physics, anyway?” asks Charlie.

“Work for CERN, of course.”

Tonks lets out a low whistle. Bill allows himself a soft curse as they turn past the Travel Lodge and a tiny woman in a Mini cuts him off.

“You’ll love London. Moving for uni was a culture shock, yeah, but moving home was even worse.”

Fleur shifts in her seat, turning her full attention to him and crossing her legs. As she does, her dress reveals a slit that runs all the way up to her knee. Bill swallows, training his eyes on the next junction where they have to exit. 

“When did you graduate?”

“Two years ago. Time flies when you’re working fourteen hour days.”

“So that makes you…” She hesitates for barely half a second. “Twenty-five.”

 _"Six._ Twenty-six. I was in a band,” he admits, grimacing.

“A good band?”

“Even I didn’t think so. But we looked the part. Long hair, tattoos, the works. I cut the hair, obviously, but I still have the tattoos.”

Her eyes track over the bare skin of his forearms, shirt sleeves pushed up in protest of the heat, to his neck, with a crease between her eyebrows. Analytical.

“Where?”

“Chest and back, mainly. I have the Thing on my left calf, got him when I was nineteen. You know, from Fantastic Four?”

Fleur nods, dismissively, turning to her phone. A few moments pass, the car filled with the sound of DJ Khaled’s latest effort, punctuated by Charlie tapping along on the lid of Fleur’s case. The little screen which usually tells him the name of the song playing flashes up this section of the road in red, warning him that this choice of route was the wrong one. As poor a choice as the one his parents made when they bought a house in a village with no public transport.

They’ll be so disappointed to hear Charlie’s little French friend is the reason he’s lost his job.

“Wow. You really pulled it off, didn’t you?”

“Oh, fuck.” Bill reaches over, right hand still on the wheel, blindly grabbing for her phone. “That was a dark fucking time, Charlie take that off her-”

Fleur sounds impressed when she says, “I can see why the chest tattoos were… your first choice.”

Tonks sticks a hand into the space between their head rests, opening and closing her fingers in a grabbing motion. She takes the phone greedily.

“Fuck me, old man. Why were we never invited to your concerts?”

She scrolls down the page, onto what Bill can only assume are further photos of him shirtless, on stage in a sweaty bar.

“You weren’t old enough to get in.”

Plucking his hand from the gear shift, Fleur turns his hand palm up, then drops it back down just as quickly.

“Bass. I can see that,” she says, smirking.

At Charlie’s confused expression, Tonks provides: “Big hands. Long fingers.” She passes the phone back, and Fleur taps away once more. 

“There. My first English friend.”

When they pull up to the next red light, she offers him her phone, which shows his Facebook page - with all the settings in French, of course, that makes perfect sense, but it’s bizarre to see - and what he’s assuming is her friend request.

“I thought _we_ were your first English friends?”

“We met in Sofia, Charlie, you don’t count.” For Bill’s benefit, she adds, “I was visiting my boyfriend’s parents for the summer. I don’t recommend it. Our relationship could not withstand his mother walking in on us… during.”

“Sounds a bit like my mum,” grumbles Charlie.

Bill bites the inside of his cheek, then opens his mouth to retort when his phone begins to ring.

“Shite. It’s my boss, I’ll never make it back in this traffic-”

Fleur plucks his phone from its customary home in the cup holder, and her accent, already apparent, becomes even more pronounced, the pitch of her voice artificially high. Bill kills the radio.

“Bonjour!” At Bill’s look of mortification, she simply reaches across to cover his mouth with her hand. “Oui, Mr Weasley is currently in a dinner meeting with my boss, can I take a message? Who- Monsieur Delacour, of course!” 

A moment of silence passes, and Fleur makes a sympathetic sound.

“No, of course, sir, a mix-up on our end, things have been so up in the air since the vote, we don’t know if we’re going or coming!” She giggles, a soft, girlish sound, then pulls a disgusted face. “Oui, we were half convinced we’d be turned away at the border. Yes, I will give him your message. Au revoir!”

Tonks sounds very much like her mother when she says sharply, “Close your mouth, dear.”

“You’re that Delacour?” asks Bill. “Like, the Delacours that supposedly own a secret private island off Fiji where they keep the family jewels and the skeletons of major shareholders?”

“There are no jewels. We deal mainly in electronics.”

“No shit,” he breathes.

“I think you can stay for dinner at this rate, William.”

In less than ten minutes, the traffic picks up the pace, and the motorway melds into B-roads and then finally, the glorified dirt track that takes them from the village to the Burrow.

Paying no heed to her calfskin ankle boots, Fleur throws open the car door the moment they pull up to the house, ushering Tonks out of the way, and snapping the handle of her case up the moment it hits the driveway in one fluid motion.

Throwing his keys to Charlie, Bill steps in front of her, palms up.

“There are a lot of stairs. A lot of stairs. Mum’s put you in the attic, so-”

“I can carry my own suitcase, William.”

“I’m sure you can, but my mum would have a fit-”

“You’re a grown man.” Her voice is low, grey eyes molten.

He goes to retort, but she holds up one finger, murmuring: “Attendez,” and briskly typing on her phone. Bill takes the chance to hoist her suitcase in his arms, kicking open the front door.

“My sister. She wants to know if I’ve met Prince Harry yet.”

“I hope you’re not too disappointed,” he says, turning to climb the stairs.

“No. I told her I’ve met William instead.”

**Author's Note:**

> I own the dress Fleur's is based off, it was half price and still fairly expensive. The shop assistant told me it would be great to travel in, and the concept that not everyone looks like a slob at the airport totally baffled me. I essentially travel in pyjamas. Cue Fleur Delacour, fairy queen. ps did you catch the Brexit mention? I qualify for an Irish passport, so I can make jokes.


End file.
